Compliments of the Season
If she hadn't heard the call, the sameness of journey would have sent her to sleep as it usually did. It was most definitely the call, grabbed her attention, and caused her to notice him.
Solitude is easily attained when on a train full of passengers. Within the commuter's arsenal are weapons of self-distraction. She, armed with her newspaper, he, his work, and his phone. The bane of public transport, the infernal device, a mobile phone. A call caused her to break protocol, the unwritten, unspoken rule of the traveller. Intending only to glance, she looked, more than a split-second, a long-second more like. If he was to look, and return her look, she was in danger. To make eye contact, to engage a stranger, may be seen as a blatent attempt to court conversation.
She returned her attention to the newspaper. Folded neatly into quarters, it rested on her knee. Inside the newspaper, puzzles, good places for hiding. Her companion, the crossword, consumed the minutes of her life she'd no constructive use for.
A stale yawn found freedom as she pondered the next clue. The sensation of being watched, spied upon, caused her to raise her head. Had he stolen a peek at her? She couldn't swear to it, but as her eyes were on their way down to the paper, she was fairly sure he'd glanced in her direction. She decided it best to wait a while. An appropriate amount of time must pass before she dare risk a look in his direction.
Only time saw her studying him. Her subconscious powered the fixed smile on her face as she scored and tallied. Her conscious objected. Claiming she did want him, it rescinded the order to smile.
He raised his head, extended both arms fully in a stretch. She immediately diverted her eyes back to her paper. Had he seen her smiling? Would he believe she was smiling at him? Would he think the smile lustful, or suggestive? If he'd received any signals, she wished she could take them back.
19 down, seemed like a good place to hide.
Thinking it was safe, she dared to peer over the top of her glasses. Alas, this time, caught, bang to rights. He was already looking at her. Embarrassed, she hurriedly cast her eyes back to the paper, rested on her knee.
As her embarrassment ebbed, she thought very carefully over what had transpired. Who had been really looking at who? Did he actually know she was looking? Or, did she just catch by chance him looking at her.
She looked over, with greater confidence this time. His attention was focused elsewhere, her carefully prepared scourge-filled look, wasted. In her mind she captured his image for scrutiny and consideration. After a detailed study of the mental picture, her opinion changed. He was no Adonis. Her initial impression betrayed her. Admittedly, he did have some redeeming features. The required qualities of clear skin, nice teeth, a body seeming fairly fit and athletic, these essential components were all present and correct. She could tell he was a specimen in fine health.
The disappointment of his cosmetic inadequacy troubled her, a brief feeling of emptiness took hold. Without instruction or authorisation her throat took it upon itself to swallow. In the middle of said operation he briefly glanced at her and then away. The swallow, on the way down met a gasp on its way up. The unusual belch, attained a substantial volume. He turned sharply, his eyes fixed on the source. She felt her skin ablaze in the sudden heat.
Nevertheless, facts were facts. Yes! Originally, he had been looking at her. The cheek of it! Now, she was determined to catch him. She looked over, he looked down, she looked over, he looked away. She needed to catch the scoundrel, confront him. She must devise a way.
She tapped her pencil against her teeth. For something to do, to kill some time, she thought to check the whereabouts of her ticket. In time the cessation of rummaging indicated she'd found it, she transferred it into the side pocket. It was in that moment her eyes spied him, there, staring straight at her. Busted! A phallic symbol of pencil held firmly in place between her lips.
Huff! She snatched the pencil from her mouth and pushed her glasses fully up onto her face. Her hand remained on her brow to prevent her peeking, and closing her eyes added security, but beneath her eyelids the pupils still stared.
A long moment passed before a random clunk caused the involuntary raising of her eyelids to investigate. The toilet door had caused the disturbance. His eyes followed hers to origin of the sound, their eyes met upon return. Confirmation of her greatest fear, she had engaged him.
Were her eyes deceiving her? Did she see a little flicker of the eyebrows? A caterpillar wiggle followed by one of those quick, how-about-it-love? eyebrow raises. Surely not? Confirmed! He did it again! The audacity of the man! On a bloody train. What did he take her for? Did he think her some kind of public transport whore? A slapper? Slap him, more like.
After spying him briefly from the corner of her eye, she adjusted her clothing to conceal more of her bare flesh. Heart-pounding, she reverted to the crossword. That beast of a man had looked upon her in a lewd and lascivious manner, she felt stripped, naked, undone.
Looking around, she played a game of I spy, conscious to spy everything but him. He sighed, she lost her discipline, a look escaped before her mind could prevent the action. Inevitably their eyes met again, he caught and held her look. That lewd suggestive signal came. She braced herself, but still it made her shudder, though this time it was different. What did that flicky eye thing mean? And now with a roll of his eyes and a single bob of his head.
She couldn't concentrate on her puzzle. Legs originally crossed, were uncrossed, then recrossed the other way. Huff! She turned the newspaper over, slapping it back onto her thigh. Palpations fluttered in her chest, her lips became dry. She licked, he looked, she looked down, he looked away, she looked up, he laughed while looking, her feeling of shame returned. The slap of the paper on her bare thigh had caused the man to ogle, his look was blatant and unabashed. Resistance was futile, defeat inevitable. She covered her mouth as she cleared her throat. Her lips were no longer dry. His eyes tracked the movement of her hand partway, they stopped to dwell on her breasts.
The train crossed a set of points, lights flickered, she glanced, there he was again with that flick of the eyebrows. He gazed as if looking at her newspaper but she sensed he was eyeing her crotch. During a long slow blink she made a wish, but he did not disappear.
31 Across: Kryptonite for Supercat (9)
His sudden movement shocked her, he turned, looking back down the train as if something was coming or moving. Maybe a ticket inspector, she couldn't tell. What is it? she thought, watching him hurriedly pack up all his papers into his briefcase. As if possessed, he set off toward the back of the train, passing her without the slightest acknowledgement.
The woman smiled, realising he'd left his briefcase on his seat. Did he expect her to guard it? Anybody could steal it, hopefully somebody would. Her vengeful thoughts turned to anxiety. Ten minutes passed, fifteen, still he'd not returned.
Was he a man filled with such a lust he needed to take his leave? Curiosity filled her, instantly the new sensation took hold. She was intrigued. Leaning out of her seat, she searched the carriage, hoping to spy him. All the way down the aisle and into the next compartment, he was nowhere to be seen. In her mind she rose and sat one-hundred times, though physically just the two. In her seat she itched and twitched in need of satisfaction.
To the call of curiosity, she snatched up her bag and marched purposefully down the train. An irresistible force at her back, and temptation before her. He'd accosted her, then run; a cowardly deed, she sought retribution, and to take her pound of flesh.
As she passed the toilets she was halted by the sound of the door unbolting. Her heart felt as if it just stopped, though more likely it only skipped a beat. The door opened, he looked out, leaned forward, checked left and right, before dragging her inside.
The snap of the bolt made her flinch. A long moment passed as she stared at him, unblinking, in silence. Her lips parted. There was no breath to pass over the chords to make the sound should she desire it so.
In the confined space, her rampant pheromones filled the air he breathed. Bang! He slammed her body against the door. Gripped her forcefully. Released her. Examined her face. There was no fear in her eyes, defiance, maybe, a challenge, definitely. She gave him no choice, he must play the hand as dealt. Her rub of her arm showed him she would bruise. The following shrug said she didn't care.
He hitched up her skirt, lifting her onto the sink in the corner. Her body limp as dead meat placed on the counter of a butcher. No romantic hungry meeting of lips. Saline sweat, yes, saliva, yes, even a welcoming moisture to entertain his visit. There was no love. The way he released his energy, with haste, she neither noticed or cared. During the brief encounter she made no attempt to take part. Her eyes remained fixed on him almost mocking his effort and craft.
The deed done, she looked him up and down, fixed her skirt, rolled her eyes and paused before releasing the catch on the door. This man was no longer attractive to her, he now possessed neither function nor purpose. The sight of him pathetically standing, his pants around his ankles, made her stomach turn. What purpose could this man serve now? She didn't need him, his love, or anything related to romance. She served the crotch as ordered. There was no more on offer.
The train pulled into the station, before disembarking she glanced in his direction. If the man had cared to look, he would have seen her eyes full of contempt and disdain. She desired him first flogged then flung from the train, the lecherous, lewd and lascivious toad.
She headed home across the park, wondering why she had committed such a crime, a most terrible sinful deed. Chuntering, chastising herself, calling herself several indecent names as she walked. When finally the expletives ceased, it appeared her sanity had returned but her dignity was lost.
Dinner was a microwave meal for one. With the odd tear emerging, she tried to grasp the uncharacteristic lunacy of her behaviour. As she washed the solitary soiled piece of crockery, her gaze wandered out to the park, full of nature. She consoled herself, concluding the event was random. A freak. Random is as random does and cannot be called to why.
To relax, she took up her crossword, to solve the last stubborn clue.
24 Across: Angry American rants about discomfort in high summer. (11)
Today was freaky, though it was not random, she had her answer to why. A deep frown appeared above her brow as she marked the letters in the boxes. B I T C H I N H E A T
That day was over a year ago and her life had changed. She no longer commuted, she no longer worked. The prize for completing the puzzle was rested on her knee. The greatest gift she'd ever received, compliments of her season.